


Talk

by yeaka



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Ficlet, M/M, Nipple Piercings, Post-Game(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:20:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27947429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Markus gets a report from a taken cop.
Relationships: Connor/Markus (Detroit: Become Human), Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 6
Kudos: 55





	Talk

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Detroit: Become Human or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Markus keeps the door of his office shut, though half his team come and go as they please—North and Simon have no boundaries with him, but Josh at least gives him the courtesy of a knock. Connor does too, though it’s hardly necessary. They have an appointment, and Connor’s precisely on time, like he always is. Markus can easily recognize the sharp, methodical rap; nothing like Josh’s softer cadence. He calls both aloud and through the tenuous bond they keep open, “Come in.”

The door clicks, and Connor does, strolling into Markus’ office still in full uniform: the only android in the building that’s chosen that path. His tie is tight around his throat, his collar pulled high, his grey jacket smoothed across his rigid shoulders. Even his boots stand out, shining against the unpolished tile. Markus pushes out of his chair to greet his guest and notices a small detail when his eye line passes Connor’s chest. 

It’s so subtle that a less advanced model would never catch it. But Markus does. He has all of Connor’s analytical abilities, _more_ since the revolution united them, and he’s had time to compile all of both their experiences. He knows Connor’s mind well, knows Connor’s design intimately, and knows that while Connor’s body was built to be every bit as responsive as Markus’ own, he doesn’t walk around in a constant state of simulated arousal. The temperature in the office is cool and what humans would call pleasant, though it should have no effect on them—certainly not enough to pebble Connor’s nipples. But Markus can see them pressing against the fabric of Connor’s shirt, enough to indent his jacket. 

They’re not linked _all the time._ They don’t read each other’s every thoughts—rather, project forward what they want to. So Connor can’t know that Markus is reconstructing every conceivably scenario that would have him strutting into the New Jericho building in such a state. He extends his hand, palm upturned, peach skin pealed away—data transfer’s always better when it’s raw plating, when there’s _nothing_ between them. Connor could send his latest report without physical contact, but it’s so much more secure if they see each other in person. 

Markus takes Connor’s hand. He intertwines his fingers with Connor’s and gives Connor a little squeeze, signaling for it to start. A wealth of information instantaneously pours into him, coded in Connor’s steady hand—various reports of how the DPD is handling the newly reformed android rights. Markus sends back what his own team’s worked on in that particular department; how they recommend handling androids that won’t listen to human officers. And then Markus probes a _little_ deeper, as he occasionally does, because he can’t help but be curious about Connor’s life: how an android so advanced, so strong and ingenious, could choose to still live and work with _humans_.

Connor says what he always does: _I’m well. I’m still living with Hank, and I’m still enjoying it._ He trips over the word ‘enjoy’, even in his mind, skipping code like his processors can’t quite handle such a vivid emotion. But Markus knows it’s true. He can sense the warmth in Connor’s mind whenever that one grizzly lieutenant floats to the surface. Almost satisfied, Markus lets his hand fall away. Connor nods, their business done. 

Before he can turn to leave, Markus glances pointedly at Connor’s chest and asks, “Are your nipples pierced?”

Colour blossoms across Connor’s cheeks—an automatic reaction, a hold over from when he was supposed to _blend in_ undercover. Markus doesn’t know why he’s chosen to leave embarrassment protocols on, but it’s not hard to guess who he’s doing it for. Maybe Lieutenant Anderson likes seeing his uptight android blush over little things. 

Maybe Markus can understand that. Connor was obviously built to be _attractive_ , and he is so, handsome in every sense, alluring from his deep brown eyes to the tiny moles that dot his flawless skin. He blushes like he’s ashamed of that, but he answers easily, “Yes.”

It’s not Markus’ place to ask, “Why?” But he does it anyway. 

Connor parts his pretty lips but doesn’t answer automatically, even though he’s programmed to—it’s reassuring to know there are things even he can’t articulate at the speed of light. After a second and a half, he says, “I don’t know. But Hank likes them.”

Markus can feel his frown setting. He tries not to look judgmental, because that ship has sailed—Connor’s never leaving Hank, not until human mortality forces them apart—and part of android liberation is letting them _choose_ , even if they choose to stay with their would-be masters. Connor would say Hank never owned him, that they were always _partners_ of some fashion, but it’s hard for Markus to be sure. It’s hard to imagine that an old human detective could ever deserve someone like Connor. 

Perhaps Connor reads that in Markus’ eyes, because he continues, “I do get some use out of them. The rings are a conductive metal, and they touch certain wires on the inside that...” He trails off. He could likely explain the exact science but chooses not to, because they both know that Connor’s not talking about simple chemistry. He’s saying he can derive _pleasure_ from them, that he can feel the sparks when things are done to them. 

Markus shouldn’t keep going but does, because Connor is so _fascinating_ , and all Markus can think of now is Connor’s naked body with metal clamps in strategic places. “What are they used for?”

Connor’s dark gaze is burning. It seems to say _you know_. But he verbalizes anyway, “Hank plays with them.” Of course. Just as Markus would, although perhaps for different reasons, in different ways. Anderson would do so idly, not experimenting, not committing it to memory, not sparking electricity at the ends of his fingertips to watch Connor squirm. 

“Does he often?”

Slowly, Connor nods. 

“I assume this is for the bedroom...”

Connor’s tongue pokes out to wet his lips, though he can’t possibly be dehydrated. Markus has never understood why they even produce an equivalent of saliva. Sometimes it seems like Connor’s the most robotic android left, and other times like he’s the most human of them all.

He tells Markus quietly, as though any of Markus’ people would be rude enough to boost their audio sensors and eavesdrop through the walls, “Sometimes, when we have a high case load, we take files from the office and look over them at home. Hank sits on the couch, and I sit on his lap.”

The image instantly forms in Markus’ mind—Connor’s lither figure perched on his lieutenant’s thick thighs. Connor would likely be facing outwards, back curved along the detective’s chest, and perhaps his jacket would be off by then. His tie would be loose or gone. And Anderson would pop the buttons of Connor’s white shirt open one by one, running large, calloused hands underneath to fondle every bit of Connor’s delicious body. 

“I made sure to choose large enough hoops that he could fit one finger in,” Connor continues, and now his eyes are half-lidded, pupils perhaps a little dilated. Protocols he shouldn’t need. The other police models Markus knows don’t have nearly so complex reactions. “It’s difficult to explain how he toys with them; I believe it’s a subconscious action, most of the time. Though his most common method is to tug on them until I make sufficient noise.”

Markus can match Connor’s modulation and simulate such noises himself, can hear them _in Connor’s voice_ , but it’s not the same. He wants to hear _Connor_ make them in person; wants to have authentic recordings on hand. That would be too much. Instead, he sounds as though he’s merely interested in the relationship of any android and human. 

“And he enjoys that?”

“Very much,” Connor confirms. “I can measure his response in inches against my backside.”

He even makes innuendos. Either that, or he thinks Markus wanted that calculation. That Markus really wants to know how hard Hank gets just from teasing Connor’s nipples. Markus can’t imagine Hank’s any bigger than himself, couldn’t possibly be more well-endowed than an android built to serve, but Connor looks as though he’s thoroughly satisfied with that aspect of his home life. He looks like he wants to resume it right now—like as soon as he finishes with Markus, he’s going to run on home to his human and strip his shirt off so he can give his master a show. 

Markus can’t justify holding it up any longer. He nods like that’s all he wanted, when in reality, Connor always makes him crave things he didn’t even know he could. 

Connor turns to go. When his fingers close around the handle of the door, Markus recalculates and dares to presume: “How many Traci program files have you downloaded, Connor?”

The door opens. On his way through it, Connor answers, “All of them.”


End file.
